


Mouse

by twistedthicket1



Series: The Stripper Diaries [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Molly being shy, Molly gaining confidence in herself and it's not just cause Sherlock notices her, Multi, Pole Dancing, Polyamory, Smut, Threesome, basically gratuitous smut, because that's a boring plot device tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6387700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly both hates herself, but she can't let go of Sherlock Holmes. If only he paid the slightest bit of attention to her, she might just stand a chance. </p><p>Yet mousy, shy Molly doesn't stand a chance when it comes to gaining the detective's attention, it's a fact that she somehow knows intimately. Upon taking a night out for herself, the pathologist comes across someone who would be more up to Sherlock's speed. </p><p>Irene Adler is confident, beautiful, and undeniably sexy to Molly. She seems to command control of a room just by breathing. What's even more astounding, is that she seems to think that she can turn Molly into the sort of woman that could just grab even Sherlock Holmes' attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayandcynical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayandcynical/gifts).



> Hi.  
> Yeah this is smut. Idk what else to tell you.

 

It seemed to Molly that it just wasn’t fair.

She liked to think that most of the time, she was a decent human being. She paid her bills on time, she worked at a job that helped people find peace after the passing of their loved ones, she owned a _cat_ for God’s sake! It wasn’t like she was out every night murdering orphans or kicking puppies! So then _why_ oh _why,_ did she put up with _this?_

Currently, _this_ was a detective of over six feet in height, flapping his arms madly and raving over the corpse of a rather unfortunate old woman who had died from a poison dart of all things lodging its way into her windpipe. Sherlock Holmes was in full battle mode this fine day, and his gleamed manically even as he eviscerated both Molly and John together for their lack of energy and enthusiasm.

“Do neither of you see how infinitely _clever_ this killer is being?! How completely _astounding_ this is…” The detective continued to rave, even as John put on a pained but tolerant smile, and Molly kept her eyes fixated upon the samples she was currently analysing. E. coli, from the looks of it. Sherlock wouldn’t be pleased. He was hoping for an administered poison, not food poisoning gone wrong. She could already picture the expression the detective would wear upon the discovery that his theory was incorrect, and the thought of it almost sent her into giggles. Sherlock’s nose would crinkle with self-loathing, and his eyes would flash in annoyance with the world.

Not for the first time, Molly pitied John Watson, who so often bore the brunt of Sherlock’s epic post-case sulks. A part of her wondered if the good doctor ever considered strangling his flatmate, and if so exactly how often. As it was, she found herself unexpectedly reluctant to rain on Sherlock’s parade, if only because John was beginning to shoot desperate looks towards the slides she was analysing, as if hoping against hope that the detective was correct if only so that he could go home and have a cuppa. Biting her lip, she hesitantly spoke through Sherlock’s tirade, cutting him off timidly.

“Um. It’s not poison.”

Dead silence filled the air, Sherlock blinking as if he had been skewered by a javelin right through his sternum. The metaphorical wind pulled from his sails, the detective was left scrambling for a moment, his brain putting together the puzzle pieces, rearranging them to fit a new picture, a new angle. In the process Sherlock fixed Molly with a piercing stare, the kind that made a flush crawl along her hopelessly pale features and staining her cheeks the colour of rosé wine. Stepping closer to the counter, the detective’s tone was a rumbling purr of warning. Something primal warned Molly when Sherlock used that tone, whispering to her a frantic threat of _danger._ She should not be drawn to it, and yet she found her heart beating just a step more quickly regardless.

“Food poisoning?” He guessed, and the pathologist found herself faltering, recognising that there was something crackling under the detective’s gaze, something cold. He was in “hunting” mode, the puzzle far too interesting to care about stupid things such as _sentiment_ and _hurt feelings._ A part of Molly braced herself mentally, knowing she was likely about to get abuse hurled at her.

“Food poisoning. E.coli to be exact. I.. I don’t think this is a murder.” _Stand your ground, Molly Hooper!_ She mentally thought even as Sherlock continued to stare at her critically. She could feel her stomach twisting in knots under the scrutiny of his mercurial expression. _He’s just a man… just an annoying, stubborn man whom you’ve been unfortunately fawning over for the past few years…_

“The body was found with a message on its back, _carved_ into his skin in French- _in what world_ does that translate as “not murder” to your little mind?”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was disapproving, steely with sleep deprivation and annoyance. Molly resisted the urge to cower, her trembling jaw clenching and her hands smoothing nervously over her lab coat. Slightly steadier, she repeated herself.

“No. No I don’t think it’s murder. At least, not intentional murder. The victim- John Alan, was dead for several hours _before_ his back was carved.”

“A message isn’t just carved into a man for no reason. As usual you see but don’t _observe._ ” Sherlock cut in, his voice as sharp as garden shears. His hands came up to gesticulate again, and as he spoke his words came faster, blurring together in whip-like deductions that promised to wound as much as deliver the truth. “It’s obvious that John Alan had affiliations with a terrorist group in France, as shown by the memorabilia hidden in his basement and the several phone conversations he’s had over the past two years with people on the watchlist for terror-related acts. Recently, communication suggests he had been reluctant about said affiliation, and was looking for an out. Poisoning is an efficient method of payback, and the message indicates that he was being made an example of-”

“Coincidence.” John suddenly breathed, his eyes alight. He looked at the two figures before him, collecting his thoughts for a moment before elaborating in the methodical way he tended to when he was about to say something surprisingly clever. “What if you’re _both_ right? What if the carving was a message, but it was coincidence that John Alan died? What if he was already dead when the other members of the terrorist group found him?”

Sherlock, swiftly latching onto John’s thread of thought, brightened.

“A chain of events, not having to do with each other but creating a chain reaction nonetheless. John, you’re _brilliant._ ”

There was no word of praise for Molly, and normally that wouldn’t have bothered the pathologist. However the fact that her theory was only now being taken seriously because of _John’s_ influence sent a red surge of exasperation through her, her cheeks heating further. An insidious voice at the back of her mind whispered jealously that it wasn’t _fair,_ how Sherlock seemed to only care about one human being’s opinion. Molly _liked_ John, but it made her hands clench and something in her heart twist uncomfortably when Sherlock completely ignored her. Whether it was because in his mind she was _insignificant_ or because she was a _woman,_ she was never wholly sure.

She never really got to ask, either. For Sherlock was already a hurricane, whisking himself away with a whirl of his coat, John a faithful companion trailing after him. Molly found herself left behind, as per usual. Unspoken words rested just behind her lips.

 

****

Toby made an effort to wind himself around Molly’s legs upon her entry to her flat. The ginger tom meowed plaintively as green-yellow eyes peered up at her, demanding treats and attention. The pathologist sighed, feeling weariness down to her bones even as she stepped past him towards her livingroom. Dark shadows were streaming through the open windows, providing stretching black fingers lining themselves along her floor, over the cushions. Molly flopped into the shade of one of them, groaning lowly under her breath. Her face tilted upwards, watching the sun- a blazing ball of red- sink slowly down past the line of skyscrapers. For a moment she let her eyes flutter closed, acting much like her cat might, drinking in the last dying dregs of sunlight and warmth.

 

She toed off her shoes carelessly, letting them rest under the coffee table even as her feet rested upon its surface. Molly thought not for the first time that she really should have stuck with her original career choice. Teaching primary school students would have been worlds easier than dealing with Sherlock Holmes and his maddening oblivion of her feelings. At least children might have been easier to convince to behave. The thought twisted in her abdomen, even as in her mind’s eye Molly saw Sherlock’s face, flashing through a myriad of his expressions. Haughty, excited, focused… and once, only once, had she seen vulnerability. It had been when she had asked him about being sad, when John couldn’t see him, for the worst thing one could do to the detective, was remind him that he had _feelings._ His eyes in that moment had been so very blue, and so very _lost_ as for a moment he’d forgotten everything and _looked_ at her, seemingly for the first time since they’d met. For an instant, Molly had felt _equal_ to Sherlock Holmes, and though it had only lasted an instant it had been enough to cause the back of her neck to redden and her hands to tremble together.

“Sentiment is a chemical defect of the losing side.” She murmured to herself, something that Sherlock muttered often to himself when he was truly fed up with the world. At that moment, Molly couldn’t help but believe it. By her feet, Toby meowed plaintively. The cat’s clever gold eyes blinked in a lazy open and shut motion, even as the creature leaned forward onto its front paws, stretching out its back legs. The pathologist sighed to herself in the loneliness of her flat. It was time to accept it.

She could never hope to be an equal in Sherlock Holmes’ eyes. It was time she found a way to move on, to forget him.

At least, not as she was now. Pathetic. Boring. Mundane, and cowardly. Molly was just considering getting up to get a beer to nurse her troubles, or perhaps a cup of tea- when at the moment, the clatter of the mail slot sounded. Both she and Toby startled, the cat chirping at the sound of the unknown, bounding fearlessly towards the door. Molly after a moment, followed more slowly. Reluctant. Her feet carried her, each step feeling as if she were wading through molasses. When she knelt down to sift through the cacophony of junk mail, brightly-coloured flyers and receipts, the pathologist’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to a black and pink advertisement, drawn in elegant lines with a cursive title lining its head. Molly felt her eyebrows lifting even as she held the paper in her hands.

 

_Burlesque Dancing~! See The Pretty Men and Women All Put On A Show, A Different Theme Every Week! Meet Our Gorgeous Team Of Dancers, From Sultry Soo Lin To The Woman Herself; Irene Adler!_

 

Beneath it, an image of a woman who was so breathtakingly beautiful, that the pathologist had to admit her breath felt like it had stopped in her chest. A woman with tumbling dark curls, lying upon a stage in a glittering, skin-tight covering. Her eyes looked up at the camera as if challenging it, sapphire orbs holding her audience’s attention, keeping it. A blood-red lip was turned upwards in a slow, cat-like smile. Molly swallowed, staring at the picture and feeling all of her fumbling, experimental high school years come flowing back to her. It had been a _very_ long time since she’d… no, she couldn’t _possibly…_ Yet she had such a long week, and with no real end in sight…

 

Beside her, Toby meowed, reaching up one paw to tap the flyer experimentally. Pleased with its smooth texture, the cat tapped again. Before putting it back down on the floor for her pet to play with, Molly let her eyes linger upon the address of the venue:

_Aldwych._

There was a show tomorrow night.

****

 _Smoke And Mirrors_ was a Burlesque show/ Dining experience, in which people could book a table or come as they were and enjoy a night with good food and a better show. Molly took a risk and chose the later, and was pleased to find that indeed on a wednesday night not many people seemed inclined to brave the rain. Her umbrella glittered with water droplets even as she hesitatingly stepped into the doorway, a contrast to the rather conservative black frock Molly wore.

 

Though her hair was free of its customary ponytail, Molly hadn’t really had the confidence to do much with it, instead letting it fall in soft, natural brown waves about her face. The interior floor of the building was polished, and her kitten heels clicked softly even as she entered, her clutch held tightly to her middle as her wide eyes took in the sight before her. There was a man at the front dressed in an elegant waistcoat and white dress-shirt, taking coats and chatting good-naturedly. To Molly, he looked at most to be about twenty-five, the softly smudged eyeliner about his eyes making the green glint to his pupils seem to glow cat-like and huge. They only widened further to match his grin upon glancing at her figure, stepping forward with a warm greeting to make sure she knew where to go.

 

“May I take your coat, Madam?”

The formal request caused Molly to flush slightly, after a pause of consideration handing her dark jacket over to the man who took it with an elegant little nod. He introduced himself as Ian, and gestured her inside, down the little hallway into the restaurant. Molly found herself looking at a small collection of rounded tables, all arranged so as to face the main attraction: a large, semicircular stage lit with warm stage lights. The floor of the stage was deepest ebony, and soft music played welcomingly even as Molly was guided by Ian (after he put away her coat) to her table. She found herself sitting with two other people- a couple who introduced themselves as Raph and Annalynne.

“Have you ever been to something like this before?” Raph asked in interest, his white-blonde hair glinting under the light of the hanging chandelier that glittered above their heads. When Molly shook her head, the young man’s smile grew in delight. He reached over to take Annalynne’s hand, chatting animatedly.

“We’ve been a few times now, Anna brought me the first time. We thought we needed to do something… well, different honestly. We didn’t leave dissatisfied. We come every few months now.”

“It’s a very small entertainment club, intimate. We’ve gotten to know a few of the dancers, even.” Annalynne smiled as she spoke, the apples of her cheeks flushing animatedly. She lifted her champagne, drinking from it before murmuring shyly “My favourite won’t be hard to guess. Ivy visits us often after the show, I’ve gotten to know her from my classes with her.”Molly’s brown eyes widened fractionally, and quietly she asked

“Classes?” Annalynne nodded, the freckles across her face flushing even more deeply. Through her lashes, she glanced at her partner.

“Some of the men and women offer dance lessons, as a means of earning more money. It’s fun, y’know? And it’s a great way to gain some confidence. It helped me, helped our relationship, it helped me communicate more with Raph. We’re closer than ever, now.”

The pathologist felt something inside of her warm at the thought: _confidence._ Something she so often found herself lacking it. The word stood out to her, like golden letters upon a plaque. Yet… she bit her lip and looked upon the empty stage, still awaiting its performers. The thought of performing before people, of baring herself, being exposed before expectant eyes… no. That wasn’t her. The thought made her glance down at her lap in resignation. Molly knew she did not have the courage. Much like Sherlock believed, she simply didn’t have the spine. The thought depressed her, more than she expected.

 

Yet she didn’t have much time to think about it, as at that moment the lights dimmed, and all heads turned towards the stage, a hush falling over the crowd in expectation. Molly found herself holding her breath, even as like a beacon the stage seemed to glow, the stage lights turning gold to deepest purple. She found her thoughts slipping away, melting off to make room for anticipation. What, she didn’t know, but she could feel it in her blood, steadily humming away. A thrumming of her heart, a delicious frisson of _new._ What came next, even she couldn’t have predicted.

In the darkness, six silhouettes silently stepped out from behind the curtains, each crouching in a different position upon the stage. Their figures were leonine and silvery in the dark, and the silence was palpable with the audience’s rapture. A breadth of a pause, then a sinuous violin struck up a nameless tune, the lights phasing to rich pink to reveal the dancers. Molly felt her jaw drop open at the sight of them, not because of their beauty (and they _were_ beautiful, gorgeous like a candy shop on display with their heavy cat-eyes and smoky outfits of glittering gold and violet) but because in the centre of the girls was a woman who was as bare as the day she was born.

 

Her hair was dark, falling down in dark tresses that tumbled down to mid-waist, and she sat upon a sparkling pedestal, the intimate parts of her hidden by a soft fur coat that was as white as winter’s snow. It was the woman from the poster, the one that had caught Molly’s eye to begin with, yet before her now she seemed twice as beautiful, and a thousand times more deadly. The woman’s blue eyes, burning like fae fire seemed to glitter under the stage lights, and holding up one ivory hand she snapped, bringing the eerie yet beautiful violin to a halt. In the silence, she held her position, reclined on the pedestal and peering at the audience with her blood red smile on her lips. Slowly, the violin turned into a tune that was recognisable, and when it finally all amalgamated together and a smooth, sinuous voice sang out the first few lyrics, Molly found that she knew it. Knew it well.

_I Put A Spell On You…Because you’re mine…_

 

Molly watched, feeling a chill run along her spine as one by one, the girls began to move, arching to the music like it pulled them, puppets attached to string. The graceful line of their bodies made them seem like waves of water, bending and twisting without any fear of breaking. In the centre of it all, leisurely running her hands down her legs and lifting them so that the audience could see the delicate arch of her feet, The Woman grinned.  Her name in that moment, was truly accurate. _The_ Woman, as if there was no one else to even bother looking for. It was sinful, how completely she owned the stage, as if to Molly she were the only human being present, the only one that mattered. For the first time in a long while, Molly Hooper felt as if though she were falling into a tailspin, tumbling into an abyss that she didn’t quite know how to escape from. It only worsened when The Woman finally stood, revealing the length of her body, slipping the fur coat from her frame to reveal her bareness, only to just be hidden by a large, decorative fan, passed up to her by one of the girls spinning on by. The teasing sort of game, stoked further by the appreciative whistles and cheers from the audience, lasted for the entirety of the song. Not once could Molly bring herself to tear her eyes away, not even when her starter was brought, and not even when the stage went dark, preparing for the next performance.

 

The band played five songs that night besides the first, each just on the edge between seductive and slutty. Molly found herself completely enraptured with each, taken by the festivity in the air and the warmth of the food in her stomach and the piercing, lingering gaze of _The Woman_ humming in her blood. The champagne also helped, leaving her at the end of the night feeling pleasantly tipsy and in good cheer. Raph and Annalynne both seemed to enjoy themselves immensely as well, the sounds of their cheering still ringing in Molly’s ears even as she stepped out once more onto the wet pavement, the magic of the evening just underneath her skin. It was like stepping out of Wonderland and into the real world, a place that was grey and faded, and the pathologist felt a small pang of bereavement. It was as if she had left something behind, some kind of spark that was fast fading under the chill of London’s rain.

Molly didn’t look back, but she felt herself fingering the small card she had collected from Ian the entire tube ride home. In her ears, the fading dredges of the music still played, and instead of hearing the mantra of _Sherlock Holmes_ that had become her usual, she had a new name, written in crimson ink before her.

 

_Irene Adler._

_Dominatrix and Burlesque Dancer._

What her eyes lingered on more however, were the words underneath:

_Teaching dance classes Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, from 6:00 to 7:30 PM. First class, free trial._

****

That night, Molly found herself naked between her covers, her own hands smoothing down her body tentatively, nervous. In the darkness she couldn’t see much more than the vague outline of her own form, but her own skin felt warm, breaking out into gooseflesh with the trail of her fingertips. She shivered, her own mind imagining at first raven-dark curls, a cupid’s-bow mouth laving kisses down her collarbones and past her stomach. She has had far too many of this quiet, filthy fantasies to feel much guilt anymore, and her breath came out in a quiet moan. Her left hand trailed back towards her breasts, her right sank in contrast lower, towards her pelvis. She imagined long fingers brushing the nubs of her breasts, even as her own fingers latched onto one, kneading the skin gently about it and causing a spreading heat to flush through her.

 

Molly bit her lip to ward off the sounds she wanted to make, ignoring the fact that she could imagine Sherlock’s baritone, what it would sound like rumbling out in a cry of pleasure. She could picture it, her hand wrapped about him, gently pulling, those blue-green eyes fastened to her face and struggling not to close in delight and surprise. Would he be a gentle lover? Likely, Molly reasoned, even as her right hand circled lower, teasing her sex and sending a delicious heat through her spine. Sherlock liked to pretend he was cold and calculating, but much of the time when one got through the layer of pretentiousness, they found an extremely vulnerable human being. He’d likely be afraid to let go, be afraid to take charge. That wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. It meant he fit more easily into Molly’s rapidly shifting fantasy, something that came upon her like a punch to the gut.

The idea of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes _together. Oh,_ now _that_ was a treat. Molly’s head tossed back even as she found her clit, gently rubbing it in slow circles that were leaving her whimpering. The idea of the detective and The Woman as one, their bare forms melding into one another, kneeling on the bed left the pathologist with a growing ache between her legs, one that her fingers rushed to soothe. She mewled at her own wetness, hot and slick even as she imagined her two interests embracing, The Woman gripping Sherlock by his pretty dark curls and tugging, exposing the pale column of his neck. She would be the type to leave love bites, deep and plum-coloured. Perhaps, she’d even tie him up, to keep himself from indulging in touch. Use the handcuffs he so often nicked from Lestrade to good use. The idea of her leaving them down Sherlock’s neck, forcing him to submit and be exposed made Molly moan, the sound loud and unabashed in her room. Her fingers slipped down further, pressing into herself, searching for that spot that would make her hips rock and her toes curl.

 

Sherlock wouldn’t know how to react, he’d likely be flustered by such an up-front claiming. She could see it, him peering up at her from around The Woman’s shoulder, the darkness of his lashes hiding some of his uncertainty but failing to fully conceal it.

As Molly pressed inwards, curling her fingers so that her eyes slammed shut and she trembled, she imagined The Woman taking Sherlock in hand. She imagined what she thought her voice would sound like, smooth and low and sweet, and thought of the words she’d whisper into the detective’s ear. Words like _tease_ and _slut_ and _tart._ With the last one, Molly’s other hand finally stopped cupping her breasts, instead joining her right in teasing her clit, her pulse thundering in her ears. Molly finally came with two fingers inside herself, her fingers ruthlessly rubbing her clit as she trembled and cried out into the silence of her bedroom, imagining Sherlock Holmes spending helplessly all over Irene Adler’s hand, his head still forcibly tilted so his spine was arched in a sinuous dip.  Completely and utterly hers. His imaginary cry mingled with her own. The illusion lingered through the aftershocks of her climax, fading gradually even as the feeling of being pleasure personified melted away to reality.

 

When she could breathe again, Molly opened her eyes dizzily, staring up at her ceiling in shock even as she panted her way through a whiteout haze of pleasure still coiling through her muscles, leaving them relaxed and pliant. It was some time before she could move, and when she could, it was only to kick the duvet off of herself, exposing her bare form to the cool night air. Molly Hooper, tired and sated for the first time in what felt like a small millennia, did not allow herself to think of what she had just done. Instead, she revelled in the sensation of strange calm hovering deep inside of her breastbone, and slipped into a dreamless sleep in which Toby’s vague cries of being locked out of her bedroom only slightly intermingled.

 

****

The next day dawned with it the unpleasant reality of Molly’s midnight dreams. The pathologist woke up sticky and groggy, grimacing at the shred of daylight that had dared to make itself known through the part of her curtains. Groaning, she licked past the dry flavour in her mouth, only feeling red-hot shame over her reckless dreaming last night. Even the idea of the dark fantasies she had entertained the night before sent hot embarrassment through her, leaving the pathologist to scramble for her shower.

While under the hot spray Molly steadfastly refused to think of either Sherlock Holmes _or_ The Woman.

****

Through all of the weekend Molly went through her routines in a daze, both anticipating and dreading Tuesday. She couldn’t seem to help but fixate upon it, the idea of the class sending an illicit chill running through her spine. A few of her friends asked her if she was coming down with something, her own mother commenting that she looked “rather flushed”. The pathologist didn’t dare tell her just what images were running through her mind.

 

When the day finally rolled around, Molly nervously gathered her sweatpants and sports bra, her hair once more in its characteristic ponytail. She had a feeling she was going to need it out of her face, for what was in store. On the tube ride there, Molly wondered just how the class would be, what Irene Adler would be like. The image of The Woman gently helping a shy girl to gain some confidence just didn’t seem to sit right to Molly, and the pathologist admitted to herself that she was perhaps getting in over her head even as she walked towards _Smoke and Mirrors._

  
During the day time, the place looked much less impressive, the bricks crumbling apart from age and weather, the neon sign extinguished like a candle doused by water. Molly clutched her bag to her protectively as she stood outside it, her tongue darting out with nervous intent. Like a mouse facing a lion, she found her heart beating fast inside of her own chest. It was after a deep breath, a pause and a clutching at her courage that Molly Hooper decided to step forward, into the darkness of whatever unexpected event may await her.


End file.
